


Unconventional Perfection

by Redlance



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Fluff, winter fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's snowing in Univille, and our agents are making the most of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconventional Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : Warehouse 13, the world and the characters that inhabit it do not belong to me in any way, though sometimes I lie awake at night wishing that they did and what I'd do with them if they did. And then I write those thoughts down.
> 
>  **A/N** : This is all basically down to the fact that I had an anon ask me to write something non-angsty and now it's been snowing for about two days straight. What you're about to read (and might I say, thank you very much for stopping by) is actually set in an AU universe that... well, no one has seen yet. Because I haven't put any of the chapters up. I want to wait until I have everything finished, but couldn't resist writing this. In case you're wondering, they do have names, I'm just holding onto them for now. And you'll hopefully know who 'they' are by the end of this. ;)

* * *

     Snow was sifted from the sky like flour dashed over dusty white dough, and three pairs of boots kicked up chilled clouds of porcelain-coloured fluff as they trudged along the sidewalk. While two of the pairs were walking at what could be considered a regular pace, the other was lifting his feet with far more exuberance, kicking handfuls of snow high into the air. When it came to the “most glorious of all weather's emotions”, Pete was not unlike a kid at Christmas. He wasn't the sole reason they were out on a rather chilly December morning, but he was a good one third of it.  
     “Oh! Oh!” He stopped dead in his tracks, forcing Myka to twist her upper body in order to avoid a collision, and she shot him a scowl as she swayed to a stop.  
     “Pete.” She snapped, tone ensuring she didn't need to say anymore, but he ignored her regardless and lifted a gloved hand from its place just blow his shoulder to wave it manically in the direction of a vendor who'd set up cart a little ways ahead of them.  
     “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire!” He sang in a deep and tuneless baritone, swinging out his arm so that it very nearly brushed Myka's nose. She jerked her head back, eyes narrowing beneath the fuzzy deep green toque she was wearing. “Hot chocolate wafting to my nose.” He grinned excitedly, darting his eyes towards his headline. “I'll race you.” Then his palm was back against the leg draped over his shoulder, position matched on his opposite side, and tiny mitten-clad hands were tightening beneath his chin, and he was off. Leaving blurred footprints in the snow and a tense Myka in his wake.  
     “If you fall with her it won't just be nuts of the chest-variety that'll be roasting!” She yelled after him, but for all the effort she put into the warning, Myka didn't think he'd hear it over the high-pitched squeals and giggles.  
     “Darling, he's much too careful for that.” Helena reminded soothingly from beside her. Myka turned her head, taking in the inventor's easy smile and glimmering eyes, and let the other woman's words and presence warm her. “He's more likely to break his on neck in order to cushion her fall, than let her be injured by his own uncontrollably child-like urges.” Helena's smile widened and Myka could see the curve of the other woman's lips just behind the thick white scarf she had wound about her neck. She knew H.G. was right, rarely was there a time when she was not, but it would only ease Myka's worry for so long and that too was a fact both women were aware of, though Helena did find it much more amusing than Myka most of the time. She turned her head back, squinting her eyes at the form of their friend as he lurched to a stop and swayed purposefully on his feet. Another wave of giggles erupted from the little girl perched on his shoulders.s  
     “If he falls with her I’ll break his -”  
     “Myka.” Helena's tone was loving, teasing, the warning really nothing even closely befitting the word, and neither woman tried to swallow their smiles. A small hand, sheathed in black fleece, jostled Helena's bare one.  
     “Moma?” The enquiry was hushed, soft and quiet like almost everything he said. Helena hummed her response, attention drifting down towards him alongside Myka's. Dark eyes, a shade or two lighter than the woman whose hand he held, blinked up at her and lips reddened from the cold parted to whisper another question. “When can I ride on Uncle Pete's shoulders?” Helena didn't pause as she reached out to pull the dark green hat that matched Myka's down a little further onto his head, covering more of his ears.  
     “How about we ask Uncle Pete when he comes back, all right?” The little boy nodded, lips lifting in a small, content smile. Myka reached over to pinch the tip of the boy's ear, peaking out from beneath the hat, and she gave it a gentle tug. He laughed, the sound as bright and warm as sunshine, and batted her hand away. She grinned at him, mouth stretched so wide it made her eyes crinkle where her curls brushed their corners, ringlets pulled against her face by her hat.  
     The sound of a car loudly revving its engine skidded through the moment, though upon lifting their gazes they found that the noise was no more than what Pete would have them believe was a car loudly revving its engine, and was in all actuality the sound of him noisily imitating a vehicle by way of his vibrating lips. He was running at them, albeit with a begrudgingly slower skip to his step that Myka knew he was forcing himself to keep in place in order to placate her, tiny bundle of blue fuzz and curls clutching a paper bag in her hands beneath his chin. Her hat, coat, gloves, scarf and even her snow boots; all of them were blue. She had announced one morning a few weeks prior whilst Helena was getting both of her children ready for school that it wasn't fair that blue was “just for boys” and that it was “my new favourite colour from now on”. Helena had smiled until she thought her face would split and had asked who, exactly, had told her that colours were assigned by gender. Apparently a little boy in her glass – Zachary, she thought – had yelled at her for wearing a blue t-shirt the day before. And of course, no daughter of Helena's, nor Myka's for that matter, would tolerate being told what she could or could not wear. And so they'd gone shopping, and the little girl's outfit, along with a good number of other additions to her wardrobe – had been the result.  
     Pete screeched to a halt just in front of them, spraying snow onto the front of Myka's pants.  
     “I got everyone hot chocolate, but little Miss Two-Hands said she couldn't carry them all, so my man Vince is keeping them toasty 'til we get there.” He bounced on the balls of his feet a few times before pivoting around and falling into step beside his friends. The girl on his shoulders giggled again, taking one hand from the paper bag and batting Pete on his head with her palm. He winced dramatically, exclaimed his feigned pain perfectly, and earn another shrieked giggle or five when he reached up to tickle her stomach, wrapping an arm over her legs to hold her in place.  
     “You only have two hands, too!” She squealed at him, threatening to drop the bag of chestnuts to the sidewalk below. She batted at his hand, giant in comparison to her own, and Pete drew it back, securing it once more around her ankle. Helena glanced down at her son and, after a few quiet seconds, gave his hand a squeeze. He looked up at her and she shot a pointed glance in Pete's direction. It took a few more seconds of silent contemplation before the young boy spoke up.  
     “Uncle Pete?” He said, voice straining to be just above his usual level of volume.  
     “Yeah, squirt?” Pete grinned as he stuck his head out to meet the eyes of his nephew around Myka's lithe form.  
     “Can I ride now?” Pete felt the girls arms instantly tighten around his head and he smiled, giving one of her legs a shake.  
     “What do you say, Smurfette?” He asked the little blue streak sitting on his shoulders. “Time to give your big brother a turn?” She seemed reluctant for an instant, but then nodded her acquiescence with a frown.  
     “He's only a few minutes older.” She protested stubbornly, as Myka raised her arms and Pete tilted his body, and she slid into the careful grasp of her mother. Myka scooped her up with ease, briefly marvelling at how it seemed like only yesterday that her daughter had been so much smaller and lighter nestled against the curve of her elbow. Now she needed both hands to support her little girl as she leaned in a pressed a cold kiss to her mom's cheek. Where exactly had the time gone? Helena snagged the bag of chestnuts from Myka's hand to free it for her and her wife flashed her an appreciative smile.  
     “You say thank you to Uncle Pete, young man.” Helena advised her son, releasing her grip on him and watching fondly as he scampered towards his Uncle with outstretched arms, almost slipping in the snow in his haste. Pete let out a very good impression of a yeti and grabbed the boy, swinging him up and around his head to settle on his shoulders. They were wearing smiles of equal size and both Helena and Myka watched with matching ones of their own.  
     They reached the chestnut and hot chocolate cart and retrieved their drinks, thanking Vince with warm words and a crisp ten dollar tip courtesy of Helena's often charitable wallet. They departed with a hearty wave and steaming Styrofoam cups, Helena carrying four of them nestled around the chestnut bag in a handy drink tray – would this new century ever cease to amaze her? - and set off along the blanketed street once more.  
     “Do remind me, Agent Lattimer,” she paused long enough for the giggles that usually punctuated that particular 'term of endearment' to bubble up and shot her children a mischievous smile, “why exactly we're trudging through ankle-deep snow before ten a.m.?”  
     “Because,” Pete drew out the word, elongating the middle vowel and stretching it as he bounced the boy on his shoulders, “Auntie Claud and Uncle Jinksy have a big surprise planned, and we're meeting them...” he trailed off, pausing for dramatic effect and darting a wide-eyed glance towards his niece. “At the park!” Twin squeals pierced all ears within a five mile radius and there was a long moment in which the children simply jabbered excitedly between each other.  
     It was quite the contrast, the raucous and nonsensical chatter of five-year-olds, paired with the serene and snowy backdrop of their little town. And though no one said it, each one of the adults agreed.  
     It was pretty perfect.  
     They made it to the park a short while later, hot chocolate still breathing little puffs of steam, and the little girl in Myka's arms hefted a sigh far too heavy for her few years.  
     “It's so pretty.” She whispered, bright green eyes gazing out at the largely untouched playground. Every surface was smooth and white, save for a spot that looked as though it had been a base camp for some winter war. A bank had been built out of the snow, probably half as high as Myka, and footprints had left patterns towards and around the base of it.  
     “Looks like someone was having fun.” Helena mused with a grin, thinking back to one of her own childhood snowball fights that most definitely had not been meant for young ladies to partake in. A notion she had thoroughly ignored. And it was as she was silently reminiscing that a freezing, bright white projectile collided with the side of her head and exploded into a million specks of pale dust, falling to the ground and instantly disappearing. Helena let out a surprised grunt and then blinked twice, very slowly. She slid her eyes to their corners and observed Myka staring at her slack-jawed while her daughter craned her neck to try and see who exactly had thrown the snowball. Helena did not need to turn her head to know.  
     Pete had already vanished from Myka's side and Helena could hear him scampering around them towards the once thought to be abandoned barrier with the eldest child in tow. Helena's eyes flicked again and caught ones turned golden-brown in the straining sunlight, gleeful and grinning at her. Red hair stuck out from beneath the bright yellow hat that sported a single eye in the centre and a mouth full of crooked teeth below it and Helena could see the bobbled-top of Steve's knit hat peaking out over the snow bank they'd evidently made before their arrival. Claudia was standing, another snowball held gently in her hand and though neither woman could see it, they both had the distinct impression that the youngest agent of the Warehouse had an eyebrow cocked menacingly at them. Myka exchanged a glance with Helena, and then they darted.  
     Daughter squealing delightedly in her arms, Myka ran towards the solid façade of the children's climbing frame. It was not unlike a rock wall, only in miniature, and they all but dove behind the five foot high structure as snowballs sailed overhead.  
     “He totally planned this!” Myka griped, setting their little girl down between herself and Helena. “No wonder he wouldn't tell us why they wanted to meet us!” She brushed away the hair caught in her mouth with the back of her hand and reached down to help her daughter pack snow into a solid sphere. “When we're through, he's going to wish I'd just roasted his-”  
     “Now, now, Agent Bering.” Helena interrupted, tone decidedly different to the one she'd used earlier on Pete. “We cannot win a fight if we rush in guns blazing.” And there was something about the way in which Helena said it that made Myka think the other woman had long ago filed away some carefully concocted plan detailing the various ways in which one might win such a fight. And then Myka wondered why she was surprised by that; Helena thought of everything.  
     “Okay.” Myka said slowly and a pair of emerald eyes looked up at her mothers in excited wonder. “What do we do?”  
     Over the next hour, a war was waged upon a powdered playground in Univille. It was bloodless and there was not a single casualty, though there was a close call with a particularly large snowball thrown at Claudia as she fled “the boy's team” and made her way towards “the winning team”. It wasn't until the wind lifted to nip at their exposed skin and Pete waved one of Steve's white gloves in a sign of surrender that they put the fight to bed and vacated their respective barricades.  
     “Leena said she was going to make gingerbread men.” Claudia announced, as Steve lifted the youngest Bering onto her back and small arms wrapped themselves around the redhead's neck. Hot chocolates long finished and disposed of, Helena buried her hands in her pockets and Myka looped her arm through the inventor's as they strode happily along the shoe-marked street, both silently marvelling at the family that surrounded them. A family that they'd once never dreamed, nor dared hoped they could have. “They should be ready by the time we get back.”  
     “Dibs on the first tray!” Pete yelled, attracting the attention of the few people walking parallel to them on the opposite side of the road. He shot a glance toward the boy now riding his Uncle Jinksy's shoulders and mouthed with exaggerated lip movements, “I'll share with you.” He grinned happily.  
     Leena would indeed be there to greet them armed with a veritable army of gingerbread men that not even Pete could best alone and Artie would be there too, taking a rare quiet day to appreciate, well, everything in his life. Family, friends, two adorable grandchildren that he couldn't possibly see as anything other than just that.  
     It was all terribly unconventional at the core, one might surmise.  
     But it was, undoubtedly, perfect.


End file.
